


choking games

by dogtired



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A vent of phoebe moods for other people to read, Angst, Bulimia, Cigarettes as a unhealthy coping mechanism, Eating Disorders, Heavy Angst, Lonely Loki, Other, Pre-Avengers (2012), Set before Loki finds out he's a Frost Giant, blood tw, tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtired/pseuds/dogtired
Summary: Are you tormented by memories? Burdened by guilt? Sewed shut by the things you remember and sickened by what you don’t? What could’ve happened and wishing what could have been? The bitter taste that seeps in, crawling up the flesh of your throat, slow and burning. How your brain is working, clogging up with unneeded anxieties and the choked up feeling, that someone, something has its arms around your neck?





	choking games

**Author's Note:**

> hello ! i'm doing mock a level exams which are sucking every ounce of life from me and i decided it was a good time for fic writing for any spare time i may be able to conjure up as an angsty teen™
> 
> this fic is very tw like most of the things i write meaning it's not a fun ride; however it's an outlet and i suppose that's healthy
> 
> more notes at the end
> 
> \- phoebe

Are you tormented by memories? Burdened by guilt? Sewed shut by the things you remember and sickened by what you don’t? What could’ve happened and wishing what could have been? The bitter taste that seeps in, crawling up the flesh of your throat, slow and burning. How your brain is working, clogging up with unneeded anxieties and the choked up feeling, that someone, something has its arms around your neck? He thinks about it a lot. It fills the absence and the doubt, a focus but it’s destructive but that’s how to deal with it- he knows that for certain.

He bares his teeth in the cracked, dirtied mirror that holds brutal reality to face him when it hurts the most. There’s pieces missing, glass gone but picked out of his own knuckles to be spat out with oozing liquid that has a rosier colour than one’s blood ever should. It’s watery, sucking the sounds of pain through his gums and tobacco stained teeth, hissing. The aching, the open feeling, the exposed skin, it’s better than dwelling. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, reddened and running from muffling sobs so that he wouldn’t wail and call out; he decides he hates help, despises it and wants to rot in his own body if he has to first.

He looks up, his sage irises but the whites bloodshot, his hair has grown and it’s sticky. He doesn’t remember hitting his head and until he touches his scalp and feels the warmth against his palm, the matted unwashed hair. Nothing feels like home anymore.

_

It moulds perfectly; digits smoothing over the silky sheets, warmth. It feels like heaven, if there was one. There are one, two and perhaps three yawns before he can pull droopy lids to reveal the light, stings his aching eyes. Slender hands move to a pale face, bony, structured and dry, excluding the wet residue in the crinkles of the flesh holding his eyes; he doesn’t remember crying, looking carefully at his hand. One drop slowly receding down the dips of his knuckles. His knuckles. The brazen deep pink and scab concealing a deeper wound- he’d forgot about that and wishes he hadn’t done it; he supposes it must have happened for a valid reason. It comes flooding back, the ache in his skull, running his long fingers through dark unruly hair, clumped with dried blood and he feels sick; his stomach churns.

Stumbling out of the double bed, shuddering and tripping over anything placed on the ground- he has to wash it out, take away the sickening dark muddy reds streaked in the waves of his curls. So he finds the bathroom and it could be a crime scene to a stranger. There’s so much there, the white sink covered in dried blood, towels amongst the tiled floor and the distant scent of vomit. He can taste it in his mouth, his own stomach acid pulled out with his own bloodied fingers from the previous night, scratching at the inside of his throat, clawing, tasting like that similar iron. Near the toilet bowl is his toothbrush, how it aids him in the destructive endeavour when hands can’t finish what they’ve started. He hates how he can still pick out the remains of slimy bile traced alongside the end of the pointed plastic brush. He grimaces and pulls of any remaining clothing on his body, twists the silver tap and a tepid stream emerges from the shower head.

_

A beautiful day, sunlight rays hitting the golden metallic towers of the Asgardian kingdom, people in groups chattering, conversing and laughing. It feels like home but he doesn’t feel like he belongs to it, a hum sitting in his sore throat, waiting for something to happen. That something was never happening. It’s late morning, and the day is young; Loki is left to his own devices as per usual, friendless, in the shadows of his older brother and finding curiosity in the morbid and unknown. He doesn’t feel like he belongs, he never has. Leaning on a small ledge, twiddling his lengthy fingers and playing with a knife he became attached to at a young age. It’s his favourite weapon generally; the base a deep green with carvings of serpents, neck at neck at each other, intertwining, attached to a shining blade that is sharper than his own wit. It’s a comfort to Loki, as a hammer is to Thor, as a sword is to a guard. He traces his fingertips amongst the handle and flips the knife, in and out, sheathed and unsheathed. Concentrated in mindless action, he almost misses the sound of footsteps approaching. Then again it’s not like he wouldn’t notice, he’s always on edge, famously so among his cheery peers. His first thought is to jolt and point the weapon at the approach but thinks better of it; looking at the weapon in his palms and placing it back in his pocket swiftly in one motion, turning and facing the sounds footsteps approaching and stopping.

He’s glad he didn’t point a knife at his mother, he thinks, facing her light sky blues and wonderfully long plaited golden but greying hair. She’s the last person he’d think of hurting, even if it were a trick. That thought brings rushes of anxiety to spring into action in his brain, his eyes wide like a lost animal. He stands to attention, taller than her, and lightly bows his head, despite being reassured there’s no need. He doesn’t deserve her and a corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly.

 “Why don’t you ever intertwine with the people around you? I often see you here or hear tales of you wondering by yourself.” Frigga reaches out to Loki, her fingers slightly touching his forearm. He can’t bring himself to admit that he feels no connection with the people around him, chewing at his chapped lower lip, how they seem to dislike upon approach and how boisterous they seem to be. He doesn’t relate.

“Perhaps I enjoy my own company too much.” He says, shushed, he feels lonelier than he ever has before. She doesn’t reply and gives a pitiful look, as if she awaits an intricate response. “I suppose I’m comfortable with the hum of background noise as opposed to upfront.” Lies upon lies, he’ll never seem to shake them.

She moves her ringed fingers to touch the side of his head, unaware of a wound covered by raven waves, “You’re an interesting boy.” She smiles; almost sadly, as if she knows something he doesn’t and it stings even if it weren’t supposed to, speaking to Loki as if he were a child. She gives one last soft look and like that she leaves.

_

It’s evening, the sky is a mix of an orange glow and pinks litter the skies; the grass is greener than it was two days ago, grown ever so slightly and the sounds of water trickling nearby. The oak that he’s leaning against is old, comforting, bark flaking at the touch and snapping with enough pressure if pursued. He traces his bitten nails, stumped and ragged against the exterior of the oak; doves perched in the branches above, singing amongst themselves and nesting in the comfort of the tree’s crooks. He lights a cigarette, there curled under the tree’s gangly and withered arms, hiding him from the sun’s low glow. He inhales, feels a slight burn at the back of his throat, amplified from its already sore disposition and watches as the grey ash lifts from the tip into the air. Watching intently, it flows gracefully, ascends and leaves. Loki wonders about leaving from time to time; to disappear, to vanish, he cringes to think that his mother may only be the one to genuinely care and feels a sharp twinge in his scalp. He wonders about disappearing, smokes until his head spins and feels nausea creep up his stomach, chest. He thinks about last night.

_

Its nightfall, Thor and his friends are drinking, laughing and smashing their mugs with what appears undoubtedly to be a form of glee; alcohol whishing, circling on the edge of the rim and overflowing down the sides. They drink and drink and wait for a fight, whether play or genuine, to occur and he can’t relate to the large brutish men. He can, however, relate to the idea of forgetting, drinking until he can’t stand straight or see clearly; he wants to drink and drink, press the liquid to his pale lips and consume as much as is possible. He’s placed shyly between Fendrall and Volstagg, his frame so small in comparison and he’s half way through his first drink of the night, his white hands hugging the mug to his bony chest and smiling somewhat coyly at the ruckus amongst him. He feels the sting in the pit of the lining of his stomach, reacting and clenching around the liquid, substituting for a lack of food- if he was to be honest he’d say it hurt and it does, but it’s a dull ache that he finds comfort in. He takes another swig and it’s bitter, much like the contents of his stomach, bile in his throat, his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. It reminds him again of his toothbrush forced too far down, how if he dropped it he’d surely choke. How his cold fingertips would dig like a curious child in fresh dirt, clawing and choking, scratching and sometimes bleeding. He drinks more; he drinks more and more, until he wakes up on his bedroom floor.

**Author's Note:**

> told you, angst. 
> 
> i have some ideas on a continuation but will most likely only do so if readers are interested.. as a frostiron shipper.. who knows right ?
> 
> wanted to write about this boy for a while as i've literally loved him since 2011/2012 and even named my dog after him. if that's not dedication then .... 
> 
> title is from nicole dollganger's 'choking games'  
> please take note that the song has a very different meaning to that of the context of this fic.


End file.
